Warriors
by Rydooper
Summary: After the Battle Of Hogwarts, Harry finds himself crowned the "Master Of Death" and discovers a lot of withheld information. Taking it upon himself to fix things, he only hopes he isn't too late. Ft. Dumbledore/Weasley/Hermione bashing; MOD!Harry, Depressed!Harry (?); Tom Riddle/Harry Potter. Warnings of: gay stuff, swearing, dark themes (e.g. abuse, suicidal thoughts) but no smut.


A/n:

here i go again plays*

time for ANOTHER fanfic that may never be completed but meh

Updates are irregular (as always) and the story will contain swearing, potentially M-rated content in the future?? Idk I'll cross that bridge when I come to it

also does anyone know if slash (aka future tom riddle/harry potter) is M-rated? there probs wont be any smut scenes but i gotta know cuz i aint breakin rules fam i got sleep to do

TO STORYBROOKE!...

Or hogwarts ya know whatever

\--

 _He had style._

It was all He could think of. With an eternity, and then some, of an existence, He had seen a lot.

But nothing quite like this. Nothing quite so... foolish. And yet, it was brilliant.

Then again, the fellow was a Griffindor and He could remember Godric's fool-hardiness - never mind his _heir_.

And, with all the adventures that Godric's heir had fallen across, it was _inevitable_ that they would one day meet.

After all, **no one** could cheat Him.

 _Those who tried?_

...

Well, He had a special place in his domain for them.

\--

Harry James Potter was tired.

His shoulders sagged, as the weight of the world seemed ever-present upon his back, and the little glimmer of amusement that his Avada eyes usually held was gone. Every step was a mountain, each day a struggle to get out of bed - yet everyone else was so _damn calm_.

First, it hit him in the immediate aftermath.

\--

"Oh, Harry! Thank God you're alright!" The familiar, warm voice of his best friend's mum brought momentary relief.

Until she barreled into him, wrapping him in a locking hug that had him more on edge than the actual battle. Her fiery hair was all he could see and the thought of the Weasleys nearly brought him to tears - _did they know Fred was gone?_

 _Did they even realise their lacking numbers?_

"D-Did you do it then, dear?" Mrs. Weasley whispered into his ear, patting his hair in a motherly fashion.

Not trusting his voice, he nodded, clenching his fists at the memory of Voldemort's death - no, _murder_.

A sharp pain in his right hand brought his attention to it and he ran his fingers over the object inside it for a moment, coming to a realisation.

 **The Stone.**

 _I thought I dropped it._

Leaving his train of thought there, Harry refrained from throwing it, just for now, and focused back upon Molly Weasley. The aforementioned redhead had retracted herself from him and her chocolate brown eyes - comforting, warm in all senses, he supposed - were now scanning every part of him for injury.

"You're quite alright then - no injuries at all?" Responding with an affirmative nod, the Boy-Who-Lived couldn't help but notice the way her eyes lost their sparkle, as if it had been disappointing to find him so, unharmed.

It was gone within a second, smothered by her mothering tactics.

\--

That was the first time he knew.

Something, just wasn't right.

The second time, it was the day after Fred's funeral. Harry had trouble even thinking upon the words - but he couldn't deny that something was wrong.

\--

It was a Thursday afternoon. Carefully controlled sunlight caught itself inside the living room, illuminating its insides.

The usually comforting deep red of the room was disconcerting. It was an all too familiar shade, all too human shade and, quite frankly, it made Harry want to puke.

And, though he found himself upon one of the nicer armchairs in the Burrow, his skin felt as if it was crawling. An unseen itch lingered in his mind and he scratched his left arm mindlessly.

Everything felt... _wrong_.

While Harry had heard of battles and this 'PTSD' (usually from the crime dramas that Aunt Petunia would watch) that would affect him devastatingly before, there was just, nothing.

His heart wrenched whenever he thought of Fred or Remus, or Tonks - hell, Teddy was an **_orphan_** \- but nothing else seemed to matter.

For all the snide (albeit, hidden) looks that he would get from Hermione upon his impartialness or the barely concealed hate etched into Ron's face at times, Harry truly wondered if he had done the right thing.

 **So many were dead.**

"H-Harry?" Ginny's voice snapped him back into reality and he glanced up, between shaggy black strands of hair, "Can I sit with you?"

 _Do I look like Sirius now? I have enough hair to._

Realising he had yet to reply to her, the teen nodded, leaning his head back and staring back up at the ceiling. If he looked closely enough, Harry thought he could see a story, weaved in the crumpled parts of the paleness.

"What, what are we?" His head jerked to look at Ginny.

Ginny, Ron's little sister. Ginny, who'd fallen too easily for the tricks of an evil boy. Ginny, his girlfri- ex-girlfriend.

And yet, he couldn't find it within himself to respark their relationship. To rebuild the groundworks and start anew.

 _Why should he?_

There was no spark. There was no swirl of butterflies around her.

He was lucky if he felt anything anymore.

Before he could speak, Ginny had captured his lips with her own, rubbing a thumb against his cheek, and then pulled back, leaning her head upon his chest - as if nothing had happened.

"So you two are good then, right?" Ron's voice seemed to wake him up and he glanced at him, nodding numbly.

 _Why couldn't he feel anything?_

\--

It simply got worse from there.

\--

Three days after the funeral, he left.

Taking his luggage from Ron's room and shrinking it, he had hurried out of the door in the early hours of the morning.

Above him, the stars still glimmered, humming a song to him - similar to when he first held his wand - and a calmness slipped over him.

As emotionless as he felt, there was, something, at work in that moment. Something was looking out for him - he would've said magical, had he not faced magic and known it well.

Magic didn't sing. Only occasionally, like when one first held a wand, would magic sing.

At least, he convinced himself that.

With that thought in mind, he Apparated away with a firm 'pop' and found himself in front of a familiar building - the one place he could, truly, call home.

 _Grimmauld Place_.


End file.
